


Day 3: Sunflowers

by MindfulWrath



Series: The Week of Terrible Fiction [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Strife forgets things. More and more often, these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 3: Sunflowers

It was difficult to say what had come first; the fear of losing Strife, or the pain of watching it happen. It had started so small and so harmlessly, it had almost been cute at the time.

"Where're my glasses?" he'd demanded, glaring at Parvis across the breakfast table.

"They're on your head, Strifey," Parvis had answered, grinning slyly at him. Strife had blushed and stuttered and grumbled something about _working too hard,_ and that had been the end of that.

And then, a few weeks later, it had happened again.

"You don't get enough sleep," Parvis told him. "You should sleep more."

"I don't have _time_ to sleep, Parvis," he snapped. "Unlike you, I actually _work."_

"And you also forget you've put your sunglasses on your head. Silly."

"Shut up, Parvis."

It had started so small. The sunglasses, and losing track of time, and forgetting to eat sometimes so Parvis had to take his lunch out to him while he worked on his machines. There was too much to do, really, and Strife was only one person, and so Parvis picked up the slack and complained about it constantly.

"Honestly, you'd be totally fucked without me," Parvis said, bringing Strife his lunch for the fourteenth day in a row. He sat down on the grass next to Strife, who was eating without looking at him.

"Whatever," he said, through a mouthful of PB&J.

"And you've been working on this same stupid machine for like, weeks," said Parvis. "Haven't you done with it yet? What's taking so long?"

"Do _you_ want to try?" Strife snapped, glaring at him.

"Sure. I could have it done by tomorrow, easy."

Strife gestured to the machine. "Please. Have at it."

Parvis pursed his lips, and folded his arms, and lifted his chin snootily.

"Fine," he said, although he couldn't begin to imagine what the machine even _was,_ much less how it worked or what Strife was doing to it. He scooted up and peered at the open panel, rubbing his chin.

He scratched his head. He muttered to himself. He drew lines in the air with his finger.

"Yeah, not so friggin' easy, is it?" Strife demanded. He stuck his fingers in his mouth one by one to get the crumbs off.

Parvis scoffed. "Of course it's easy. It's just _you_ haven't told me what you're trying to do yet. Can't very well fix everything if I don't know what it is I'm supposed to be fixing."

There was a silence, and Parvis looked over his shoulder at Strife, puzzled.

Strife was staring at his hands, brow furrowed, his lip curling ever so slightly.

"Strife?" Parvis asked, a little ball of dread sinking into his stomach.

He looked up suddenly and cleared his throat.

"Y-yeah, uh . . . well, Parvis, if you can't figure out what's wrong with it, then uh . . . clearly you can't help. So uh, why don't you go back to—to whatever it is you do when you're not messing up all my work?"

"Are you okay?" he demanded, folding his arms and turning to face Strife. "Because you're acting weird. You haven't been sleeping again."

_"Parvis,"_ Strife began, and dragged a hand down his face. "Would you just go away?"

"I could bring you to bed, too," Parvis suggested coyly. "If you keep forgetting."

"Fuck off, Parvis," he snapped.

Parvis pouted and got to his feet. "Fine," he said. "See if _I_ ever do anything nice for you again."

"Bye," Strife prompted. Parvis flounced away, promising himself that he was done taking care of Strife.

* * *

 

After that, it had only gotten worse, spiraling faster and faster, picking up momentum with every passing day.

Strife would forget to get dressed. Strife would forget he'd been making coffee. Strife would forget what day it was and whether he'd already eaten and what the disassembler was for. One day Parvis walked in on him just standing there, staring blankly at some machine or other like he'd been dropped there fresh from outer space.

"Strife?" he said, approaching gently. Strife didn't move, didn't react. Parvis touched his arm, and Strife's brows drew together.

"I was doing something," he said slowly. "I don't . . . remember what it was."

Parvis looked around the room, searching for inspiration.

"What's this, then?" he said, pointing at the machine.

Shaking his head, Strife said, "I'm not sure. I'm not—I-I'm not . . . sure."

Parvis's guts twisted into a tight knot. He patted Strife's shoulder and forced a smile.

"Well—well I've got no idea what it is either, so that's fine, right? That's probably fine! You've got so much in that big old head of yours, who cares if a couple things fall out, right? I mean, right?"

Strife's fists clenched at his sides, and his jaw tightened. He was glaring at the machine, blinking rapidly, his lips twitching.

"I made it," he croaked. "I _made_ it, and I don't know what it _is._ It isn't . . . it isn't _fair,_ this shouldn't happen. This shouldn't happen to _me."_

"Hey, it's all right! I'm sure you'll remember! Look, why don't you come upstairs and—and have some coffee, and maybe sleep some, and . . . and it'll all be fine in the morning! I'm sure it'll all work out all right."

Strife took a deep breath and sighed it out, then nodded.

"Yeah. Sure," he said. "It'll be fine."

* * *

 

Two months after that, Strife had wandered away from home and vanished for seven hours.

One minute he had been out on the lawn, placidly working on his machines in the summer sunlight, and then he'd been gone, only a few minutes later. Parvis had been checking out the window in between reading his texts on blood magic—there had to be _something_ in there to fix Strife, he was sure of it, otherwise what was the use—and when he'd looked up and seen an empty space where Strife should have been, his heart had dropped into his boots.

He'd searched, for seven hours straight, combing the landscape, cursing himself for not paying more attention, cursing Strife, demanding of the universe how he could've got so _far_ in so little time. By the time he found him, sitting on a flat rock by a stream, it was full dark, and the temperature had fallen so far it made his breath mist.

"Christ, _there_ you are!" Parvis had cried, dashing up to Strife and resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

"Oh, hi," said Strife, looking Parvis up and down blankly. "Where did you go?"

"Where did—where did _I_ go? Where did _I?_ Where the hell have you _been,_ what've you been doing?"

"I don't—know," Strife admitted. He sniffed and cleared his throat, looking away from Parvis. "I just . . . I just came here, and you weren't here, and so I waited for you. I thought you'd just—wandered off. I don't know. We always come here."

"Strife, I've never been here before in my fucking _life,"_ Parvis shot, sore and aching and sick with dread. "Why did you wander off? Where were you going?"

To his horror, Strife started to cry.

"I don't know," he said, choked up. "I don't _know,_ I don't _know,_ I just—I was just—I'm sorry, I don't remember, I can't remember. . . ."

Parvis's ire folded in on itself and collapsed, dusty and dry. With shaking hands, he reached out and touched Strife's shoulders.

"Hey," he said. "It's—it's okay. It's all right. I . . . forgive you. Okay? Let's just go home, let's just get you home."

Strife sniffled, and nodded, and got to his feet. Parvis took his hand, and they started off towards home.

Halfway there, Strife tugged his hand out of Parvis's grasp and demanded to know where they were going.

* * *

 

A year passed. Strife wandered off more and more often, getting more and more lost, until Parvis finally refused to let him out of his sight for more than a few minutes. Strife couldn't focus long enough to work on his machines, to work on _anything,_ and so mostly he sat in the sunroom and watched the seasons change with an air of mild confusion.

One day in the summer, Parvis sat down next to him. His arms were hatched with pale scars, the only fruits of fourteen interminable months of labor. He was always lightheaded these days, and it kept him scared. He would wake in the night, terrified he'd lost consciousness and Strife had wandered off again.

He'd started locking Strife in his room at night. Sometimes he could hear the doorknob rattling.

"Hiya," Parvis said. Strife looked over at him, an expression of interest on his face.

"Hey," said Strife, politely.

Parvis sighed and rubbed his face. "So, y'know how I've been trying to figure out a way to fix you?"

"Something wrong with me?"

Parvis's mouth pulled into something that was trying hard to be a smile. "Yeah. The memory thing."

"What memory thing?"

"The thing where you forget stuff. All the stuff. Everything."

Strife scoffed at him. "Right, okay."

Sighing, Parvis didn't bother to correct him. Some days he didn't listen; some days he couldn't.

"Well, it's not going well. Again. Still. I'm still trying but . . . yeah. No progress, really."

"That sucks," said Strife. "What're you trying?"

Parvis waved a hand. "Just . . . blood-magic stuff. It's all very complicated, and you've said you don't like it anyway."

Strife smiled to himself, his brows pulling together in mild confusion.

"Hey, I . . . I knew a guy who was into that blood-magic stuff," he said.

"Yeah?" said Parvis, sitting forward. "Who?"

"He was such a jerk," Strife said fondly. "Always messing stuff up. Dumb as a bag of bricks. Nice guy, though, in a way. You kinda remind me of him. Parvis, was his name. My old buddy Parvis."

Parvis swallowed, tears welling in his eyes.

"Strife," he said, his voice thin. "I _am_ your old buddy Parvis."

Strife looked at him for a long moment, confused; then recognition spread across his face and his tears sprang to his eyes.

"Holy crap," he said, full of wonder. "It really _is_ you! God, how long has it been? How—how've _you_ been? _Where_ have you been?"

"It's been . . . it's been a few minutes, Strife," Parvis said quietly. "I've been cleaning up the house."

Strife's face fell in, creasing with confusion and concern.

"That doesn't make any sense," he said. "That—that doesn't make any sense."

"I'm sorry, Strife," Parvis said. "It's true."

"No. No! That's not—that _can't—you_ can't, you can't do this to me! You _know_ I forget things, it's not funny, Parvis, it's not _funny!"_

Strife was hitting himself in the leg, his voice thick, tears threatening to spill over his eyes. Parvis took his hands to keep him from hurting himself, and Strife broke down, crying helpless tears that dripped down off his chin and onto his lap, making dark circles on his trousers.

Parvis drew him into a hug, and held him until he forgot what he was crying about.

* * *

 

He wasn't sure what was worse; the fear of losing Strife, or the pain of watching it happen.

Strife forgot to get up, forgot to go to bed; he forgot to eat, forgot where he was, forgot Parvis, forgot _everything._ It was like someone was poking little holes in his brain, turning it into a sieve, until nothing could stick, until everything just flowed right through. Parvis took care of him, as best he could, but there was only so much he could do.

Strife stopped wanting to get up. He stopped wanting to eat. He stopped wanting _anything._ He sat by the window and stared out with empty eyes and sometimes he didn't respond when Parvis touched his shoulder. He didn't rattle his doorknob at night anymore. He slept soundly, and for longer, until he was out for twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day. He shrank down against his skeleton, grew pale and shriveled and hollow, and Parvis moved him about like a doll.

He fed him, and clothed him, and bathed him. Sometimes Strife talked, but the words hardly made sense. Parvis explained things to him, over and over—who he was, where he was, what day it was—but none of it ever stuck for more than a few minutes, because Strife forgot.

And one morning when Parvis went in to wake him at noon, Strife had simply forgotten how to live.

He was lying in his bed, cheek pillowed on his hands, covers drawn up to his chin. He was so still that there was no mistaking his condition. His skin was pale and papery, his face peaceful.

Parvis sat down on the side of his bed and touched his shoulder. Strife did not stir. His body was cold.

* * *

 

On the twelfth of June, Parvis buried Strife in the sunflower garden. He cleared out a little space and dug all morning, blistering his hands and making his shoulders sore. He dug the grave deep, deep enough to keep Strife dry when it rained, but shallow enough that maybe the sunflowers would grow stronger on his grave.

He had no coffin to put him in, so he laid him in the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. Strife was still wearing that peaceful expression. He looked, almost, happy; almost relieved.

Parvis buried him in the afternoon, and planted a sunflower seed on every square inch of the freshly turned earth, pressing them in with his scarred fingers. He erected a tombstone, hand-carved, the lettering shaky and clumsy.

Then he went inside, and washed his hands, and curled up in bed and cried for days.

Next summer, the sunflowers grew, taller and stronger than all the rest. They shaded out the tombstone, hiding it amongst their crowded stalks. The lettering was deep, and it persisted long after Parvis had left the place, long after he'd moved on to places less choked with pain. It was a simple message, and it said everything Parvis had never managed to.

 

_Will Strife_

_My Teacher. My Friend. My Brother._

_I will never forget you_

 


End file.
